Prelude Blues
by R. Kramer
Summary: The tale of two dragons and the woman that tears them apart.
1. Prologue

"Nice tune…" He said as he brought a glass of whiskey to his lips.

He took a draught of the spirit and fought back the aftertaste. A black man on a saxophone filled the bar with jazz and the smoke that hung low hid the faces of troubled fellows looking to drown their sorrows in a shot glass full of tears. He sat alone at the bar, his green hair exploding in every direction and fiery eyes so full of soul they could melt the ice in his glass.

He set down his glass and the bartender filled it with more whiskey. Sliding a tip across the bar to the old man, he caught the reflection off his glass out of the corner of his eye. A man at the table behind him raised his hand from beneath the table and a match struck from a neighbor illuminated the gun in his hand.

He leapt over the bar before the tavern erupted in gunfire and covered his head as glass and liquor rained down on him. The bartender fell at his side, dead and riddled with bullet wounds. He reached over and took back the tip from the bartender's chest pocket and stuffed it into his suit.

Two more men rose from their tables, opening fire on the unsuspecting patrons and the black saxophonist before turning their gunfire in his direction. He reached his hand above the bar and felt blindly across the top for his whiskey, finding it at the same time a bullet shattered the glass. He pulled his hand back and licked the alcohol from his cuts.

Reaching into his blazer, he pivoted into a stoop and pulled out a handgun. A break in the gunshots brought him to his feet and he pulled his trigger on the man who opened fire first, the bullet finding its target and painting the wall behind him with blood.

Leaning into a sideways run, he fired two shots across the tavern and dropped the second shooter. He hurtled the end of the bar and fired at the last man, sending a bullet tearing through his chest and a second into his head.

After returning the gun to his blazer, he picked his coat up from the floor and slid it over his shoulders. The black Armani fell around his knees and he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket. Stepping outside, he placed a cigarette between his lips, lit it, and with an exhale of smoke he disappeared into the night.

_Spike Spiegel. One of these days that attitude's gonna get the best of you…_


	2. Session 1

He slowly opened his eyes to a swirl of blurred colors. Focusing was too much to ask for right now. He slid his tongue over the taste of cigarettes on his lips and brought his hand to his forehead. A slight pain caught him by surprise, followed by the smell of blood and whiskey that reeked from the bandages.

Shifting his vision to the clock beside him, he managed to make out the time. It was still early morning, but he knew he wouldn't be falling back asleep. With the last of his energy, he rolled out of bed and onto his feet, aiming for the bathroom door. One foot in front of the other and into the bathroom, he stood in front of the mirror eyed the man staring back at him.

"Well Spike…" he said to himself, sliding his bandaged hand through his gnarled hair.

Before he could finish his thought, the phone started to ring. He knew who it was and, rather than answering it, he began to undress. As he started the shower, the answering machine beeped and a familiar voice came from the speaker.

"_It's Mao. We've got a problem. I'm sending a car in ten minutes."_

Just once, he thought, I'd like to wake up when there wasn't a problem.

He peeled the bandages from his hand and dropped them into the toilet on his way into the shower. Hypnotized by the falling water, he began piece together his thoughts. Who was it that tried to assassinate him last night? No doubt they had something to do with the urgency in Mao's voice.

After his shower, he button up a white collar around his neck and slipped into a black sweater vest and matching pants. The gray tie was already loose around his neck when the doorbell rang. He pushed the button on the wall, causing one of his wounds to crack and start to bleed again.

"I'm on my way." He said through the intercom, stepping into his shoes.

The four flights of stairs were an obstacle after a night of alcohol and bloodshed. When he reached the bottom step, a man dressed in the standard Red Dragon attire greeted him and lead him to the car waiting outside. He went in through the passenger door and the car started down the street.

"So what's all the noise about?" Spike mumbled while positioning a cigarette between his lips.

The driver gave him a glance in the rearview mirror and then focused his attention back to the road. "Apparently you weren't the only one who was targeted last night."

"Is that right?" He replied, more interested in rolling the sleeves up his arms than listening to what the driver had to say.

"A group of Dragons was attacked last night in the Red Light District."

"Any survivors?"

"Just one. Mao wants to you to meet him."

"What's his name?"

Spike lit his cigarette and stole a long drag of smoke.

"He calls himself Vicious."

"Vicious…" Spike repeated, exhaling smoke.


End file.
